


Sweater Weather

by obfuscatress



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), SPECTRE (2015)
Genre: Clothes swap, Multi, because i’ve bought a brown wool cardigan thanks to Q, bickering over meteorology and other such idiocy, look the cats are important even if they’re passive assholes, tooth rotting domestic fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-22
Updated: 2016-03-22
Packaged: 2018-05-28 10:31:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6325495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/obfuscatress/pseuds/obfuscatress
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Winters in London are cold. Q’s sweaters are not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sweater Weather

**Author's Note:**

  * For [adreaminglamb](https://archiveofourown.org/users/adreaminglamb/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Clothes Swap](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/184159) by adreaminglamb. 



> Title taken from the Neighbourhood's song of the same name.

The English are strange in many ways, Madeleine knows this. She’s heard them argue over the right way to make tea - black; no, milk; no, sugar; no, honey and cream. She’s stood in a store staring at two dozen varieties of black tea, wondering which one it was Q asked for, only to come home with the wrong brand of Earl Grey. And she puts up with it all gracefully, but _this_ is starting to get out of hand.

“You have to be kidding me,” she says, thoroughly unimpressed and on the verge of frustration.

“No. No, he’s right,” Bond cuts in, “Freezing rain and sleet are not the same thing. Sleet is the slush like stuff that rains down with some ice crystals already formed while freezing rain only gets its texture once it reaches the ground.”

She sighs as Q points out, “There’s a distinction there, meteorologically speaking.”

“I’m not a meteorologist though!”

She’s irritated now, clutching her spoon like a weapon. This is only dinner, Madeleine reminds herself when she sees the perplexed look on Q’s face. Bond grins and shoves half a slice of bruschetta into his mouth.

“Look, all I’m saying is that it’s driving me mad. I fail to understand why you love this city. It’s frigid, the tube is damp and disgusting, and wearing wellies out at zero degrees, or ever for that matter, should be classified as a crime. ”

Q opens his mouth to protest and Bond, the bloody bastard, insists on playing devil’s advocate. “She’s right, you know.”

“Oh, sod off. Besides, surviving the weather is a matter of preparation. Layer some wool and invest in a good parka while you’re at it.”

“You are more likely to find me dead in an alley, naked, than wearing one of those glorified plastic bags.” Madeleine wrinkles her nose, though her displeased look falters when Bond spits soup all over the table laughing. On the sofa, the cat lifts her head, ears twitching as she levels Bond with a glare mirrored by that of her owner.

“If I were you, Bond, I’d stay out of this. You’ve lost all rights to complain after that nip to Sicily the other week.”

“It was for work!”

“No it wasn’t,” Q snorts and one look from Madeleine is enough to let him know he’s gotten himself into deep shit. Somehow their argument is morphing from one point of conflict to another and it shouldn’t be enjoyable, but since Q’s involvement the three of them bickered like children on a school bus non stop. Madeleine, who has always envisioned a quiet, lonely life for herself finds it oddly enjoyable and decides to play it up to its fullest.

She crosses her arms over her chest and gives Bond her least impressed passive glare. “James, don’t even give me that look.”

“I thought we settled this.”

“Since when?”

“I offered for you to come.”

“Some of us have actual jobs.”

Q nods in agreement, a hint of bitterness drawing across his face. She doesn’t know how they’ve gone from opposing one another to allies, but here they are, staring down one of the nation’s former top assassins at their kitchen table.

James sighs, “Why does it always have to end like this?”

“Because you never hand in your equipment or do the dishes,” Q says.

Madeleine adds, “Not to mention you turn off the heating whenever you go on a trip and leave me to freeze my arse off, because no one actually remembers the combination to the lock on the control panel.”

“She’s not wrong, you know.” Q smirks and Bond doesn’t quite manage to look ashamed. They’re all smiling like mad with Marseille looking on lazily. The cat goes back to sleep and Madeleine finishes her soup while her boyfriends argue about the shooting range targets. Out of all the strange Englishmen they are perhaps the strangest.

 

* * *

 

Sundays are not what they used to be back when she was a girl in catholic school, expectantly bouncing on the church steps in wait of her father, who rarely made an appearance due to his rather non-catholic line of work. Years later she sleeps in and watches the miserable grey daylight of rainy London filter in through the bedroom window. Save for a cat nestled on Q’s pillow, she is alone even now and much for the same reason. She wonders whether it’s true what they say - that girls look for men like their fathers - and then remembers she’s chosen two wildly contradicting partners in crime to keep her company.

Q seemingly so soft and frail has more sharp edges to him than the elbows he jabs her with in his sleep. He is lithe, compact, and witty, never one to pass up a snarky remark unless it’s five in the morning and he hasn’t gotten a drop of caffeine in himself yet. He is the reason there’s cat hair all over the bed, little screws scattered on the kitchen counter to fall to the ground and wait for someone to step on them and curse at a God none of them believe in.

And then there is James: warm and charismatic despite the blunt force lingering just beneath the surface. His beautiful body is mutilated with the shadows of scars, some faded and tanned while others still stretch out in a fiery red. She’s seen him approach death from two sides, as the victim and the perpetrator, and by some miracle he’s always come out of it alive.

Madeleine isn’t sure where she fits between the two. She’s spent half her life in hiding, bitter, and now she lives a civilian life with two of Britain’s most mysterious men. To her they are open books, their lives transcribed in where they leave their tea mugs on busy mornings, in the things they confess in bed on the verge of absolute exhaustion, in the bottles of liquor they reach for after a tough day at work. Reaching across the bed to pet Marseille, it occurs to her: the bed is James’, the sheets are hers, and the cat is Q’s. They’re all right there even though James is in Rostock and Q at MI6. She curls her fingers into Marseille’s long fur and the cat purrs indulgently.

“Two lazy ladies, aren’t we, mon cheri?” she asks and sighs. “Perhaps we ought to get up, don’t you think?”

Madeleine shifts under the covers despite the cat’s protests and gets out of bed. She regrets her choice immediately. It’s frigid, as per usual, single pane windows leaking heat like crazy no matter how much Bond has paid for the flat. Her feet grow numb on the icy floorboards and she pulls a throw blanket over her shoulders. On the fridge she finds a note in Q’s slanting cursive: they’re out of milk.

Tybalt, having come out of hiding for the first time in days, rubs up against her leg to beg for food. It seems cat food is all they have anyway, so Madeleine dumps a hefty enough helping of chicken to leave some left over for Marseille and decides to go out for breakfast. It’s only a matter of finding her wallet and getting dressed, which is easier said than done considering the complex ecosystem that is their closet.

Her dresses and James’ extensive arrays of suits are all crammed onto one measly bar while the rest of her clothes and most of Q’s wardrobe is distributed onto various shelves. Somewhere at the bottom lies a heap of sweatpants, sports shirts, and worn pajamas. One look outside is enough to let her know it isn’t a day for a dress. Besides sheer shirts and the odd cotton cardigan she doesn’t own anything to combat the weather, so when her eyes land on one of Q’s old zip up cardigans, she takes the liberty to borrow it.

 

* * *

 

A storm moves in in the afternoon and the windows rattle in its wake. Madeleine stirs her tea and curls up on the couch to watch the news with a blanket pushed between her and the leather sofa. The power is out in some parts of the country, the north is flooding, and she’s still freezing. Not even the Austrian Alps were this miserable.

Madeleine sighs and switches to a marathon of the Jeremy Kyle show while Tybalt comes creeping out of the bedroom to sit under the coffee table. “You don’t like the weather either?” she asks and glances at the whistling windowsills.

Marseille hops over the back of the sofa and curls up behind her legs. It’s encouragement enough for Tybalt to dare climb up too and come to rest on her hip like a king claiming his throne. Madeleine merely twists her head into the crook of her arm and decides to take a nap with her feline fellows. She falls asleep to the scent of laundry detergent and a trace of gun oil embalmed in the cuff of Q’s cardigan.

When she wakes hours later, it’s gotten dark and Tybalt has migrated into a swirl at her stomach. The light in the hall is on and she has a brief moment of panic until she hears the quiet thread that can be none other than Q in his ridiculous snowflake patterned woolen socks.

“Why are you sneaking around?” She’s surprised at how hoarse her voice sounds, but if Q startles he doesn’t show it.

“I didn’t want to disturb the three of you.”

She glances down at Marseille still peacefully unaware her owner has come home. “Well, I’m awake now. How come you’re back already? I thought you said Monday at the earliest.”

“The schedule got pushed.” Q comes up behind the sofa and perches himself on the backrest to smile down at her and run a hand over Marseille’s back. “I see you found something warm to wear.”

“Two cats and a sweater ought to do the trick.”

“You know Bond hates that cardigan.”

“He secretly finds them endearing. As do I.”

Q’s face lights up at that, though she can’t tell if he’s blushing or not. He leans down to kiss her before he whispers, “It looks great on you too.”

“Idiot.”

She’s smiling in spite of herself, warm and fuzzy from the way Q looks at her. He’s no longer wearing his glasses and his hair has become a tangled mess atop his head giving away his exhaustion. As if that wasn’t enough, he says, “I have some great news for you.”

“Mmh?”

Q doesn’t get to it before the front door rattles and Bond steps into the foyer with an umbrella in one hand and a suitcase in the other. “Spoilsport,” Q murmurs.

“Am I seeing double?” he asks.

Q is the first to answer. “At your age you mightn’t see anything at all. Did you bring your gun back this time?”

“Now, now boys, play nice,” Madeleine says before Bond can get a word in.

When he does, he asks, “Have you even gotten off that couch while I was gone?”

She rolls her eyes and yawns, turning her head back into the sofa. Bond slips out of his shoes and comes to sit on the armrest behind her head. It occurs to Madeleine he smells vaguely of smoke and she wonders what he’s destroyed this time.

“That cardigan is truly atrocious.”

Madeleine grumbles, “Oh, shut up,” on Q’s behalf.

Someone pets her hair and she’s already half asleep again by the time she hears Q’s stomach rumble above her.

“As much as I love everyone being home,” he says, “I’m starving and there’s nothing in the fridge.”

“Then that only leaves the question of who’s buying dinner.”

“I’ve already fed the cats. I won’t feed the two of you,” Madeleine says. As if to make her point, she strokes Tybalt’s head and the normally reclusive cat pushes back against her hand with a _mrrr_.

 Bond and Q glance at each other.

 “I just saved the world.”

 “You still owe me a gun, Bond.”

She doesn’t have to open her eyes to know the resigned sigh is James’. At the foot of the sofa, Marseille lifts her head to see what all the commotion is about.

**Author's Note:**

> Marseille is named after the soap, not the city. The original bars sold in France have a little cat carved into them. Tybalt, on the other hand, just spoke to me. I do not condone Tybalt's actions in Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet, nor is this dear ginger soul modeled after that hot headed douche.
> 
> You can find me on tumblr at obfuscatress.tumblr.com


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